


Under Heaven

by the__gemini__twins



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: AU, Canon Compliant, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, No TB storyline, Series of One Shots, Turnadette - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-29 01:37:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20788451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the__gemini__twins/pseuds/the__gemini__twins
Summary: What if instead of Sister Mary Cynthia being attacked it was Sister Bernadette? Is this the catalyst that finally brings her and Patrick together? AU set after season two, no tuberculosis storyline."As daybreak approaches her sisters will be rising for Lauds, and she pauses by the river to lift her thoughts to heaven alongside theirs. She had just begun giving thanks for the healthy birth, for the strength to carry on, for the joy this work has shown her - when the first pain hit."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This fic follows a vague outline of when Sister Mary Cynthia was attacked but has replaced her with Sister Bernadette. I wanted to explore how this would affect both Patrick and Sister Bernadette and also show a glimpse into the pre-Shelagh days. This is my first fanfic/really writing of any kind, so comments/critiques are welcome. Thanks!

She knew she shouldn’t tarry about the docks; she was bone-tired and had been up all night fighting to bring a new life successfully into this world. After nearly twenty-two hours of labour, Mrs Winston finally delivered a beautiful, healthy baby girl. While Sister Bernadette gave all the credit to the new mum, braving the pain to meet her girl, she was quite proud not to have needed to call for a relief midwife. 

She always tried to put on a calm and unshakable front, to boost the mother’s morale even when labour stagnates, or the tap has gone out and no hot water can be found. 

It’s her quiet strength she thinks, looking down into the deep blue of the Thames, that has been one of her most precious gifts from God. She is fulfilled in this work and divine guidance floods her being every time she delivers another baby as if shouting “yes, this is why I made you. Just for this purpose”.

The black sky around her is slipping into the blue light of dawn, stars fading into distance pinpricks as the sun begins its ascent toward the horizon. Sister Bernadette closes her eyes breathing the chilly morning air deep into her lungs and begins to pray.

As daybreak approaches, her sisters will be rising for Lauds, and she pauses by the river to lift her thoughts to heaven alongside theirs. She had just begun giving thanks for the healthy birth, for the strength to carry on, for the joy this work has shown her - when the first pain hit.

The air goes whooshing from her lungs as she doubles over, she feels a hand pushing under her wimple to snake into her hair, wrenching her head into the steel railing guarding the river down below. Her last coherent, frantic thought before she blacks out is if her body will soon be floating down there and whether a certain person will ever find out what’s become of her.

* * *

She lays utterly immobile for three breaths as she assesses the space around her. She hears no human movement, just the gulls crying overhead and the river gently lapping below. Carefully she cracks open her eyes and gazes over the now-empty street. 

She lays there a moment longer, using her training to assess her condition. No broken bones, pain primarily radiating from her head and a shallow gash on her palm. She can only breathe from one side of her nose and despite the normally overwhelming stench of fish and brine, the only smell she can detect is dried blood. 

She feels the cold cobblestones digging into her back and winces as she shifts her head and begins to roll over. The thick fabric of her habit scraps along the stones, catching the rough wool on the grit of the road. She tries to pull herself upright, but her head is pounding, and her muscles are trembling from fright and exhaustion. 

After what feels like an eternity, she finally wrangles her disobeying body into some semblance of a sitting position. The effort alone makes her wonder how she’ll ever reach Nonnatus House.

Her bike is still neatly propped, undisturbed against the guardrail, and all her medical supplies are intact in her bag. 

“Well,” she sighs as she finishes tying off the bandage around her bleeding hand, “at least it wasn’t a robbery too”. 

She begins the slow, plodding journey back to her home, back to where it is safe. As the fog surrounding her thoughts begins to lift, she is better able to reflect on what just occurred. 

“Unimaginable,” she thinks “Poplar will be outraged. A perpetrator going after a nun in the wee hours of the morning. If he was so bold as to attack a woman of God, surely there were other girls before? Girls who were not as lucky as I.” 

And she was lucky, she realized, that it did not go further. Whether it be happenstance or divine intervention, something must have made the man turn away and leave her alive with only a battered face and sore limbs. 

Her habit had always been her armour, her shield from the outside world. It held her above and lent her an air of reverence within the community. The policemen always walk in pairs, for protection they say, but a midwife – _especially a midwife and a nun _– has always been free to roam unchallenged. It keeps her invisible - just one nun, just one nurse, among many. It keeps the gossip and the prying eyes of Poplar out, or it used to anyway. 

As she ambles down the backstreets the sun continues its progression overhead. Keeping to the shadows she tries to avoid detection for a little while longer, Nonnatus House must be her priority.

She navigates the twists and turns of Poplar’s back alleys deftly, having much practice over the years going from flat to flat. As she limps home, she reflects on different alleyways, on times when she's felt invincible and on times when she's relied on her habit to remain unseen.


	2. Chapter 2

“It’s like a trick of the light”, she mused, “blink and you’ll miss it”. She often wondered how she continued to get into this situation; one moment she was fully intent on cycling back to Nonnatus and the next she’s standing beside him hunkering in a back alley.

Lately, it's been happening with alarming frequency, as if her brain skipped over the actual deciding part and went directly to doing. He was leaning against the brick façade of the building, a lit Henley in one hand, the smoke curling gently overhead.

“Hello again.” She ducked her head, breaking the brief flash of eye contact shared between them as she took her place against the wall.

“Wonderful job with the external cephalic version, when Mrs Davies presented breech I thought forceps might be required. I should have known you’d have it done and dusted in no time.” He offered the compliment along with the cigarette.

A slight incline of her head and a quirk of her mouth was the only indication that she’d heard him.

“How’s Timothy getting on then?” The woody feel of the smoke circled about her tongue, “You said last week he was working on his mountaineering badge.”

"Oh yes, the cubs all had a lovely time camping in Epping forest. You should have seen how Tim carried on about it, even brought home a grasshopper carcass to study." Dr Turner chuckled, "Not really my area of expertise."

One drag then pass, that had been their unspoken rule. And it will continue in this pattern until another appointment carries one of them away or the cigarette burns to ash. It had been nearly eight months since Maeve Carter’s birth and their first foray into the somewhat-illicit-and -definitely-frowned-upon habit of sharing a cigarette. They were in too deep now to quit.

If he has a free moment between appointments he’ll casually slip behind the building and she’s begun to move just a tad slower than the other nurses. They’ll be heading home while she's still straightening up after the antenatal clinic. It's these stolen moments that provide her with a sense of belonging, of being seen. It's these moments when she loves him best.

As they're trading stories, little snippets of their day and interesting developments from _The Lancet_, she knows he truly sees her. Not just as another nun or another nurse, but as herself. Like planets orbiting a sun, moth to a flame, like a thousand other clichés, she is drawn to his presence and he to hers.

* * *

He shut the ambulance door and turned on his heels. It had just begun to rain, and the blackening sky matched his mood. It should have been a textbook delivery, a young primigravida with no warning signs of eclampsia.

It had all happened so fast, and now mother and baby were whisked away fighting for their lives. He hated the look of helplessness he saw on the father’s face, hated that he couldn’t prevent this, that he couldn’t even assure the man all would end well. 

“Now where has she gone?” 

Sister Bernadette had remained steady during the harrowing past hour. She never faltered, not even when the mother’s face went slack or when the convulsions started. With swift efficiency, she wiped the blood from the poor woman’s lips after she bit through her own tongue. She ushered the husband out of the room and gave an efficient, clinical update once the ambulance team arrived. 

But after they secured the woman in the gurney it’s as if she had vanished completely. Dr Turner surveyed the courtyard carefully through the thick downpour of rain, her bike was still resting against the building so he knew she couldn’t have gone far.

Pulling his coat more firmly about his neck he ducked his head against the maelstrom and made his way down the side street. She wasn’t hard to find sitting against the wall, she was the only other creature out during the storm. With her knees pressed to her chest and her arms wound tightly around her legs she looked so unbearably small. He immediately wanted to go to her, to comfort her and to share this sorrow with her.

He took three strides and paused, as he tried to comprehend the image before him. Her wimple and cap were cast aside, crumpled into the road, and dark golden hair was plastered to her face in a sopping mess. Her shoulders shook but the rain drowned out any sound of her sobs. Carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal, he crouched down before her and touched her sleeve. She lifted her head from her lap, wild eyes meeting his and he saw his own pain reflected back.

“Sister Bernadette,” he hesitated, his voice dropping to a whisper, “Sister, I –.”

“Please don’t.” Her voice was barely audible over the cacophony of the rain drumming off the rooftop.

“Don’t what?”

“Call me that. Sister Bernadette, I mean. Just not right now, I…I just cannot be _her_ at this moment.”

The lilting burr of her accent became thicker. "Shelagh...my name, _my real name_. It's Shelagh."

He had no words for that. No words to explain how his heart felt like it was fracturing in his chest, seeing her in such pain. But soaring too, that she would trust him with such knowledge.

Cautiously, slowly he turned so that he was sitting next to her, back pressed into the damp brick. He made sure to leave an acceptable amount of space between them. 

Ever since his woefully improper display at the Parrish Hall, he was militant about making his movements clear. Never again did he want to subjugate her to feeling violated, to have her feel he was encroaching on her vows. Her sacred covenant with God. But right now it appeared that even she could not bear the weight of them.

"To Him all lives are sacred, and yet, we now have two innocent souls whose very lives hang on by a thread. Who very well may die. He has promised there is a time for every purpose under heaven. But what purpose does this serve?" She cast her eyes skyward, the rain trailing down her face like tears. "I cannot reconcile myself with this. I have sworn to serve a God who I believe is merciful and wise in all things. But this I cannot understand and my faith is no comfort to me now." 

Though he did not share her faith he shared her outrage, her feelings that this tragedy was senseless and they were powerless to stop it.

"I don't pretend to know what this situation looks like through a believer's eyes. Ever since Marianne died I've been agnostic at best." 

Shifting his head to look at her he gave a sardonic smile, "But you told me once you wished your faith made a difference, and; while I don't know if it will help save their lives, I do know it did make a difference tonight. It was your faith that brought you down this road to become a midwife and gave you the training and competence to handle these circumstances. Although I don't share your faith in God, I do have faith in the medical care we're able to provide. And I have faith in you, Shelagh. In your abilities, in your passion and relentless drive. You gave them a fighting chance they might not have gotten had some other nurse been present tonight." 

She dashed at her eyes before tilting her head towards his.

"Thank you, Dr Turner. That means a great deal to me. You've always been...more than kind."

A slow smile spread over his face, "Patrick." 

"Thank you, Patrick", she repeated, a wide grin now mirroring his own.


	3. Chapter 3

Trixie had almost upended the entire bottle of nail varnish when Sister Bernadette first walked through the door. She had stood up so quickly her chair hit the floor with a deafening crash.

She had immediately run to fetch Sister Julienne from her office. The three of them gathered around the table, the other midwives all gone on their rounds. Trixie couldn’t stop her palms from shaking as Sister Bernadette recounted her story.

“Oh Sister, what were you thinking cycling alone” Sister julienne’s tone was not accusatory, rather it held a note of deep sorrow as she gazed across the table at Sister Bernadette’s swollen face.

“We always do. I thought…I thought my habit would protect me, but that was my arrogance.”

Trixie couldn’t bear the shame beginning to creep into Sister Bernadette’s voice. It could have been any of them attacked today. It shouldn’t have mattered if she were alone or what time of day it was. Poplar should be safe, _she should have been safe._

“Don’t you dare, for one second, think you are to blame for this,” Trixie sounded severe even to her own ears, but the notion it was in any way Sister Bernadette’s fault was simply maddening.

Sister Bernadette sat ramrod straight, her eyes unfocused, and traced a shallow crack in the table.

“Do you know the worst thing? The worst thing is I’d actually stopped to pray. These past months have been so full of confusion, but I wanted to raise my prayers with yours. To sing inside my soul what my sisters were singing.”

Sister Bernadette finally raised her head, her eyes first meeting Trixie’s and then sliding over to linger on Sister Julienne’s. The older woman began to slide her hand across the table but hesitated once Sister Bernadette appeared to shrink back.

"Sister please, you've had such a shock. I cannot begin to imagine what you have gone through today." Sister Julienne murmured as if talking to a small child.

Sister Bernadette shook her head. 

“Don’t talk to me gently. Don’t be kind. Because I’m angry!" She seethed. She was breathing hard and her hands fisted into the rough fabric of her habit, "I’m angry and I don’t know what to do or what God wants of me. I don’t even know if He wants anything at all.”

“Please let us help you"

Trixie had never seen Sister Julienne this close to tears. 

She felt sick at the thought of this man touching her friend. From the state of her, it was clear it was an absolutely beastly attack. Any exposed skin a mottled purple, the bandage wrapped hastily around her palm stained a dark crimson.

Trixie reflected on the sunshine routine she would put on for her father, to keep The Horrors away. 

She mustered up some of that false bravado now, “Here sweetie, come with me. I’ll draw you a bath, while Sister Julienne contacts the police to make a report.”

* * *

The water was scalding, great plumes of smoke rising from the surface. But Sister Bernadette stepped in regardless, and Trixie supposed maybe the burning water was a good thing. Maybe it could erase not just the dirt and grime, but the lingering pain as well. 

She certainly looked more relaxed than this morning. Trixie had dumped in a generous dose of bath oil, and bubbles filled the tub so the only visible part of Sister Bernadette was her battered face.

Trixie ran a professional eye over her patient. At least she had a slight flush along her cheeks and wasn't as deathly white as this morning.

"There we are. I'll just go get you a towel and be back in two ticks."

She was just pulling the towel from the linen closet when Dr Turner dashed up the stairs. His hair was a tousled mess, shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbows. It looked like he had run all the way to Nonnatus.

"Where is she?" He slammed to a stop in front of her.

He looked absolutely distraught, the poor man, "She's in the bathroom. But Dr Turner - "

Trixie was at a loss as she watched the Doctor run down the corridor. 

"Dr Turner! Wait! She's not decent."

Trixie gave an exasperated sigh as she marched after him, hissing at him to "wait" and "come out of there at once." 

The sight she was met with from the doorway stopped her cold.

He was on his knees, one hand braced against the side of the porcelain tub, the other stroking small circles down her back. Sister Bernadette's arms were thrown about him, her head resting in the crook of his shoulder. 

Trixie had not seen Sister Bernadette cry during this entire ordeal, but she was crying now. Great heaping sobs wracked her tiny frame.

Trixie couldn't hear what he was murmuring, but she heard her reply "It’s as if I’m behind glass. I’m scared to move in case everything breaks.”

She clutched the towel tighter to her chest unsure of how to proceed. She would be more than happy to damn decorum and let Dr turner stay if that was what Sister Bernadette wished, but if Sister Julienne were to find out...

Gently she rapped on the threshold before stepping through. They both froze for a heartbeat before Sister Bernadette extricated herself from the Doctor's arms and slipped back beneath the murky water.

Trixie didn't know quite who to look at, but she forged on, "Dr Turner, please, I must ask you to leave at once. What if Sister Julienne comes? Or the police? _Honestly!_ Right now she is your patient".

She passed a critical eye over the pair.

Once they both looked sufficiently mollified she continued in a milder tone, " Please come with me, doctor. Your shirt is soaked through. We will get you a towel and then you may wait for Sister Bernadette _downstairs_."

She deposited the Sister's towel on the lip of the tub and strode from the room. 

One glance over her shoulder ensured he was following.

"I'm only a footstep away," he mouthed before exiting back into the corridor.

* * *

Seated once again at the large oak dining table with Sister Julienne, Trixie couldn’t help but watch Dr Turner as Sister Bernadette recounted her story. He leaned up again the wall, arms crossed, showing no indication of what had been going on upstairs just minutes prior. 

“But his eyes”, Trixie thought, “seemed to shimmer with barley checked rage at what Sister Bernadette was saying.”

Trixie glanced to the woman seated across from her. She had already given a full report to Sergeant Noakes and was describing the tattoos that would hopefully lead to her assailant's capture.

Her tale was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Sister Julienne?" Sergeant Noakes inquired, "we're ready for your report now. If you'll just follow me up to your office."

"Certainly. If you'll excuse me."

Sister Bernadette had lapsed into silence at the sergeant's arrival and now a tension seemed to permeate the air.

Neither she nor Dr Turner was speaking but the glances between them seemed to convey a message nonetheless.

"I'll just pop round to the kitchen and make everyone a cup of tea."

Trixie couldn't bear to sit there in silence, and if her hunch was correct about the doctor and the nun she assumed they would like a few minutes to sort out everything that had occurred since this morning.

* * *

The teacups rattled in their saucers as she made an abrupt stop.

Trixie peered through the crack in the door and contemplated whether or not she should go in. He had left his post against the wall in favour of the chair Trixie had abandoned minutes before. 

Trixie knew eavesdropping was wrong but after the display upstairs, she hated to admit that she was terribly curious. 

She mused to herself that she must act as a sort of lookout in case Sister Julienne comes back, as they deserve a respite to themselves.

Really she just wanted some explanation for the scene she witnessed earlier. 

"I was so worried when I got the call this morning. The thought of you being in pain, being hurt and I powerless to do anything about it." His hand came up to rub over his eyes, "After Marianne died I had to hold it together for Timothy, but if I were to lose you too. I'm not sure I can go through with that again." 

"Shhh," she murmured, "I really am fine Patr...Dr Turner, or at least in time will be. I feel lighter. I thought this was a test of faith, but I've learned I can bear more than I thought. God's given me the strength to bear this, to endure it and have the courage to speak out about it. And hopefully, this attack will stop with me." 

Slowly he lowered his arm, "But the fact that you had to endure this at all." His hand curled into a fist on the table, "Please let me help you, whatever you need I'll gladly give it. If it's more time or more space or...or if it's not. Whatever you need, whatever you desire, consider it yours. I...I want...," He paused then and drew in a breath, "Please let me walk this road with you."

She began to fiddle with the ties of her bandage, without looking up she replied, "I...I would like that very much. You do more for me than you'll ever know. Just your presence, your friendship, has helped me tremendously, and not just today."

Trixie stifled a gasp as understanding hit her.

They lapsed into silence for a moment, the implications of their conversation still freshly brought to the surface. She looked intently at her bandaged palm, fingers twining and untwining the laces, while his eyes never left her face.

"Would you like me to take a look at that", Dr Turner inclined his head toward Sister Bernadette's bandaged hand.

Wide eyes met his and she slowly extended her arm, her fingers uncurling as she twisted her wrist.

With almost exaggerated care he cupped her hand and untied and removed the bandage, his eyes rapidly moving back and forth as he inspected the injury.

"It's shallow. Just a slice, fortunately, no stitches required," He began to trace just around the cut, the pad of this finger ghosting over her skin.

"It may leave a scar." He flicked his eyes up to meet hers.

"I don't mind a scar." A small smile played at Sister Bernadette's lips, "Please."

His eye locked with hers as he appeared to hesitate.

His voice dropped down so low Trixie had to strain to listen.

"Shelagh...I..."

With a jolt, Trixie realized what he had called her and what that implied. Why on earth would Dr Turner know her former name?

Sister Bernadette gazed at him through her lashes, a slow flush spreading over her face before disappearing into the collar of her habit.

"Patrick, please" she stretched her arm forward, her hand still lightly cradled in his.

With deliberate slowness, Dr Turner lifted her palm, almost reverently, toward him. 

Trixie was rooted to the spot, knowing she was intruding on a deeply private moment but unable to look away all the same. She was shaking, teacups clacking gently, but with what? Happiness? Fear? Anticipation?

Without breaking eye contact he leaned toward, pressing his lips to the base of Sister Bernadette's palm in a chaste kiss.

As he straightened she flipped her palm, taking his hand in hers and rubbed her thumb languidly across his knuckles.

"There," she sighed, "we've made a start."

* * *

Trixie finally burst into action once she heard footsteps descending down the stairs. Hastily she crashed through the door and announced she brought the tea. Her voice sounded strange and high pitched to her own ears.

Sister Julienne and Sergeant Noakes walked in to inform everyone the assailant had been arrested.

"Came off a ship from the Merchant Marina, a Soviet. It was the tattoos that got 'em, thanks to your account Sister," Sergeant Noakes explained. Everyone seemed to exhale a collective sigh of relief. 

Trixie watch the look shared by Sister Bernadette and Dr Turner.

_Of course_, she was happy for them. However, it appeared that this had been going on far longer than she ever would have guessed and she couldn't help but feel the rug had been pulled out from under her. How had no one else noticed or suspected anything?

But when she turned and saw a small smile lingering on Sister Julienne's lips as she gazed at the pair, she realised maybe that wasn't quite true.

Trixie was unsure how it would play out between them, where they would go from this moment, this day of admission. But for now, at least Poplar was a little safer and Sister Bernadette could continue to heal with her friends and her loved one by her side. 

**Author's Note:**

> Legal disclosure - some of the dialogue (mainly in ch. 3) has been taken out of season 5 ep 6 of Call The Midwife. It, along with all the characters, belongs to the writers/creators of CtM.


End file.
